


pretzel sticks

by slugpostage



Series: two-shots for my faves only [1]
Category: Andi Mack (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Banter, Fluff, Gay Disaster T. J. Kippen, Gen, Language, Two Shot, gotta love muffy, he has a personality!!!!, i dont know what this is but marty is more than a dumb athletic party dude, marty from the party likes indie music. no i don't take criticism., marty likes to run!!, marty says the fuck word, platonic tarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slugpostage/pseuds/slugpostage
Summary: Despite his nickname, Marty “The Party” isn’t actually the type of guy that likes to party. In fact, he’s straight-up not having a good time.(or, "give marty a personality" challenge)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's here!!!!! 
> 
> gosh i was so excited to do this. the way they ended the show was great, but it pissed me off that marty was just a static character whose only defining traits was that he was slow (comprehension-wise), fast (speed-wise), and liked buffy. it just...grrrr. so, i decided to just give him a personality myself. this started out as a bit of a vent and somehow morphed into whatever this is.
> 
> my tumblr post about marty listening to indie music got a lot of attention, so i put the song names of his indie running playlist in the end notes, if y'all wanna look at those. i know, i should've made a legit playlist, but i don't have spotify premium.
> 
> speaking of tumblr, you can find me there @slugpostage. 
> 
> (fun fact: this is exactly what i do at my great aunt's annual new year's eve party. sometimes she doesn't make chocolate covered pretzel sticks so i settle for garlic knots.)
> 
> comments + kudos are hella appreciated! have a great day :o)

Despite his nickname, Marty “The Party” isn’t actually the type of guy that likes to party. In fact, he’s straight-up not having a good time. 

He’s stranded upstairs at his estranged great aunt’s house during a New Year's party that wasn’t anywhere close to New Year's Eve, a paper plate full of chocolate-covered pretzel sticks in his lap. He can hear people laughing downstairs, and if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the floors vibrate from the speaker down in the basement. 

The bedroom he’s in is comfortable, not that he could really choose. The carpeted floors were a dim white that was soft to the touch, and the walls were a light blue. Despite a large, made-up bed in the center of the room, Marty opted to sit on the carpet instead. Sitting on the floor made him feel grounded, made him feel like he _ existed_. He could feel everything around him—the plush carpeting, the dirt and crud that hid within the synthetic fibers, the cool air coming from minuscule gaps in the carpeting. It made him feel connected. That, and running. 

Running was different than sitting on the floor, though. Running wasn’t existing, running was _ feeling alive._ Running was being so in tune with your body that you didn’t even have to think about it. Running was knowing you had the power to do something, anything, and _ doing it_. Running was feeling the fire in your lungs after you push yourself to the limit, and then just a little bit farther. Running was the only thing that made Marty feel like himself. 

Marty picked up another pretzel stick—white chocolate, mmm—and chomped on it. He wished he could run. But, it’s dark as hell and he’s somewhere up north that he doesn’t recognize. He could get lost so easily, and maybe that’s what he wanted. But not right now. 

Marty sets the plate down on the floor beside him and lays down on the carpet. He feels like a tree, surrounded by life, rooted in place, and safe from any harm. It’s perfect. He’s not one to contemplate life, but when he does, he does it on the floor before a run. 

Another thing he likes to do on the floor is to plan things. He may not be Cyrus Goodman, but he’s one hell of a planning guy. It’s easier for him to think on the floor, so it’s easier for him to look into his brain and organize what’s cluttered, and what better way to organize than to plan? He plans mosts of his songs on the floor, and when Buffy lets him he plans their dates on the floor, too. Today he’s planning his next run. 

It’s gotta be soon, he figures, because he can already feel his skin itching with the need to _ get out_. He doesn’t exactly know when he’s leaving—it’s already after ten right now—but he’ll tell his parents he’s off to bed and sneak out. He’ll have to layer up, though, because Decembers were brutal in Shadyside, especially at night. That’s fine, though, because it won’t prevent him from running. He’ll run around his neighborhood, first, then he’ll head to the park and sit under the stars at the gazebo. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan. 

Marty smiles and reaches for another pretzel stick—dark chocolate. Not his favorite, but it’ll do. He quietly munches on the pretzel stick, sitting up and leaning back against his elbows after he finds it difficult to swallow laying down. Some people might think that he isn’t very smart, but Marty knows that isn’t true; he has one of the highest marks in his English class. He isn’t always very perceptive, though, but people usually default to just calling him ‘slow.’ But Marty isn’t slow, he’s fast. He was the fastest runner at Jefferson Middle School, and now he’s the third-fastest runner at Grant, close behind Buffy and a senior he didn’t really know. 

Sometimes Marty wished that his brain would work better. He knows his brain is fine, but sometimes it feels like his brain and his body don’t really correlate. His body is just a vessel to him at most times—a hermit crab’s shell, if you will, and his brain was the hermit crab living inside. Sometimes the shell felt too big, or too small. He feared he’d never be normal unless he was laying down on the floor or running. It was strange, sure, but lots of things were strange to Marty—like the Aurora Borealis, and how life could exist beyond Earth, and how he knows that he’s living right now, but what comes next? 

Marty sits up fully and eyes the bed. He’s been on the floor for too long, his thoughts are starting to sink to the bottom of his skull like wax inside a lava lamp. He imagines that if he could feel it, it’d probably feel the same as drinking cold water on an empty stomach and feeling it slide down your throat and slosh around in your stomach. 

The door opens, and Marty startles. He turns toward the door and sees his mother pulling her coat on. “Hey. You ready to go?” 

“Oh, yeah,” Marty says. His eyes flit over to the paper plate of pretzel sticks. He holds up a pretzel stick, “Can I take these?” 

“You can do whatever you want,” she replies with a chuckle. Marty nods and scoops the plate up. He follows her downstairs, offering clipped ‘goodbye’s to his cousins and relatives he’d never seen before. 

When they got in the car, Marty let his head rest against the window, feeling the cold bleed into his forehead. When he was younger, he used to try to get his eyes out of focus so all the lights on the streets would blur together. Other times he’d try to read every street sign that passed and remember them. He’d only ever remember fragments of two or three, but he still tried. 

His legs were itching to be moving. He felt restless in the car, thinking of everything that he used to do. He felt trapped, and he knew he only had a little ways away from home, but he just couldn't wait. He felt like a little kid on their birthday, hosting their very own party. He bounced his leg in anticipation, watching as the roads went from completely foreign to more familiar. _ Campbell Drive. South Sun Road. Bermuda Court. _

Once they pulled into the driveway, Marty put his plan in motion. He waved goodnight to his parents and bounded up the stairs and into his room. He flopped onto his bed, bouncing once more, and stayed still until he felt the springs settle. Cool. 

Marty's room was nice. His walls are a darker blue than the ones at the party, and his floor is more gray than white. Right under one of his windows was his recording set-up, complete with a mic and a mini-keyboard. There's another window next to his bed that opens up to the roof. He usually uses that window when he sneaks out for a run. By his closet was his black laundry bin, overflowing with clothes. He should probably do his laundry tomorrow. He has a few posters up on his wall, and he has a corkboard full of pictures and a calendar, but his room is otherwise bare.

Only two people have ever been allowed inside of his room. His best friend TJ was the first. It was for a school project, and even though Marty tried his hardest to steer him away from his house, TJ still insisted that they work there. Marty was too afraid to say no to him, so he just nodded silently. TJ exudes a rare kind of confidence that Marty could only replicate, and he tried to—it never worked well for him. But the more TJ came over to work on his project, the more comfortable Marty felt around him, and the more they realized what they'd both had in common: they both liked Andi Mack's best friend. Well, not exactly. 

TJ came out to him after a few months of randomly hanging out. They were mixing a song together when TJ took his headphones off.

“Hey, Marty?” he asked, apprehension clear in his voice. It wasn’t like TJ to just stop a jam session. 

“Yeah?” TJ takes a deep breath but doesn’t say anything, so Marty continues. “Was it the reverb? Because I think it’ll be fine once we layer some more harmonies onto it—”

“I'm gay,” he confessed. Oh. He didn’t expect that. It was a welcomed surprise, though. Marty had never met any other boy who liked boys, so it was refreshing to see that it was the person he least expected. 

“Yeah, me too,” Marty replies. His eyes widen, “Well not like...not like _ gay _ gay, but, like, bisexual gay? Wait that’s not—” He sighs and takes a moment to collect himself. “I’m bisexual.”

“I’m glad you told me,” TJ says.

Marty nods, “And I’m glad _ you _ told _ me._” There was a pregnant pause until Marty spoke up again. “Shit, I’m sorry, I stole your moment. I feel like an asshole now.” 

“Dude, shut up. It’s really not a big deal,” TJ assures him. “But...can you not tell anyone? I’m not really out to anyone but you, Amber, and Cyrus.”

Marty scrunched his eyebrows in confusion, “Cyrus? Like, Buffy’s Cyrus? How did _ that _ happen?” A blush slowly crept onto TJ’s face, and Marty understood. “_O__h._..so ‘salt’ was—”

“More than just salt, yeah,” he finished. “But he doesn’t really think that I like him right now? And I’m thinking of making a grand gesture or something. I’ve been talking to Buffy about…” 

Their song never got finished, and Marty was secretly glad. He’d pick moments like these over a song any day.

The other person was Buffy Driscoll. That had also been somewhat an accident, but like TJ, he’s glad she came. Actually, no, it wasn’t an accident that she came over, Marty just never anticipated her agreeing to it.

“My parents are out of town,” he said. They were sitting on the track, stretching before a race. Marty decided early on that he didn’t want to share running with anyone else, but over time, racing had become their thing. “Business trip or whatever.” 

Buffy quirked a brow, “What, are you trying to imply something?”

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” he quipped. “Not to brag or anything, but my pad is the sickest place in Shadyside.”

“Oh my god, never say that again.” Buffy reached over to tie her sneakers. “And you completely left out one key detail.”

Oh shit. “I did?” 

“Yeah, that you’re completely wrong!” 

Marty laughed, “How would you know? You’ve never even been!” 

“Well, for one thing, you haven’t invited me over,” Buffy says, jumping to her feet. “Honestly, Marty, you can’t say you have the ‘sickest pad’ when you won’t even let me see it.” She swings her arms across her chest and grabs one to stretch it.

“I just asked you to come over!” he exclaimed. “And why are you allowed to say ‘sickest pad’ when I’m not?” 

Buffy glances over at him as she switches arms and scoffs, “Because I’m better than you.” 

Marty rolls his eyes, “In your dreams, Driscoll.” 

“Aw, you dream about me?” she coos. 

Marty blushes and runs his fingers through his hair, “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” 

Buffy clasps a hand on his shoulder. “Me too,” she admits. 

Marty gapes, his eyes as wide as saucers. “Uh—I—you—” he stutters. 

Buffy laughs and takes off jogging. “Thanks for the head start!” she calls. Marty can’t help but take a moment to watch her, a fond smile spread across his face. 

Marty’s forever grateful that he met Buffy Driscoll. When she came over to his house later that day, she made fast friends with his cat Bongo and stuffed a family-sized box of Cheez-Its up her shirt. She also brought home one of his hoodies. Needless to say, Marty had never had a better night.

Marty pulled on a pair of fuzzy socks and stuffed his feet into his running shoes. He’s layered a sweatshirt over a long-sleeved shirt and he feels like a baked potato, but he’d rather feel like a baked potato than freeze to death. He reaches for the paper plate of pretzel sticks and grabs the last one—milk chocolate. Cool. He’s ready. 

He takes a bite of the pretzel stick and opens his window. The cold air stings as it enters his lungs, but it only reminds Marty of what’s to come. He steps out onto his roof and lays down, taking a moment to listen to the crickets chirping. He wonders why they haven’t died yet with how harsh this winter has been. Marty tucks his arms in close to his chest and leans to the side and he begins to roll. He reaches an arm out to grab at the tree next to the house and misses, causing him to fall into a bush. 

“Ow, fuck,” he mutters. He takes a moment to recover, then stands and dusts himself off. He listens for any signs of stirring and is met only with the chirping crickets. That’s a good sign. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and grumbles at the sight of his tangled earbuds. This wouldn’t be a problem if he had airpods, but these earbuds have been with him through some tough shit. After about a minute, they come undone and he puts them in his ears. He puts on his favorite playlist, and with that, Marty sets off. 

Running at night has always been surreal. The air is always still and time doesn’t seem to pass in the same way, so Marty never exactly knows how long he runs when he goes at night. Clouds cover the stars, but he knows that they’re gleaming bright as ever. Most of the trees are bare, but the small branches are covered in snow that sparkles under the streetlamps. It’s beautiful, for sure. Marty picks up the pace and keeps moving. 

After the sixth song on his playlist ends, Marty can feel his lungs burning. An odd sense of pride bubbles in his chest as he begins to slow, appreciating the feeling of his lungs on fire. He’s hyper-aware of his ragged breathing, and he begins to slow down until he spots the familiar swing sets. A grin makes its way onto his face, and he sprints over to the park. He runs towards the woods and onto the trail until he finds the gazebo, overgrown with ivy. He lays down on the bench inside and catches his breath. After he feels like he can breathe again, he burst into a fit of giddy laughter.

He’s _ alive._


	2. bonus

So maybe it wasn’t the best idea to fall asleep in the middle of the woods. In his defense, though, he really didn’t mean it. 

According to Marty’s phone, it was a little after four in the morning. He still had time to make it home before his dad left for work, but it had started snowing after Marty fell asleep, so he’d have to walk back, and that would take  _ forever _ . 

So, he did the next best thing.

In retrospect, it was stupid, but Marty didn’t plan this like he usually would. No, this was spontaneous, and he’d never really had the best luck with spontaneity. It reminded him of the time in third grade where he tried to impress a boy he liked by doing a backflip off of a slide during recess. Marty learned two things that day—he can’t do a backflip, and most third-grade boys are stupid, himself included. 

Technically, Marty could write off what he was about to do by saying it was safer than going home because technically, it was. He couldn’t imagine getting caught and not being able to run because he was grounded. What kind of bullshit would that be? Marty would go insane for sure if that happened. 

He knew the address by heart, which was great because his phone was on low power mode, so he couldn’t really use Google Maps if he wanted to. The house was only about a block from the park so it’d only take him about three minutes to run there—enough for another song. 

When he got there he made a beeline straight for the garden, picking up handfuls of pebbles and stuffing them in his pockets. He walked over to the large oak tree in front of one of the windows and began to climb. Once he reached the window, he sat down on a sturdy branch and pulled a few pebbles out of his pocket. 

_ Plink! _

He threw the first pebble at the window.

_ Plink! _

_ Plink! _

_ Plink! _

_ Pli _ — “Ow, What the fuck?” 

Marty smiled sheepishly, “Sorry. I thought it’d take you longer to get to the window.” 

Buffy rolled her eyes, “Marty, what the hell are you doing here?” she rasped. Her curls were pulled up in a ponytail, and she was wearing shorts and a hoodie.  _ His  _ hoodie. His heart thrummed in his chest. 

He shrugged, “I went out for a run.”

“At four in the morning?”

“Well…” he started. “At, like, midnight, yeah. Then I got to the park, and I went to the gazebo, and then I fell asleep.” 

Buffy hangs her head and lets out an exasperated sigh. “You’re a dumbass,” she says. “You’re such a dumbass.” 

“Can I come in now?” He asks, “It’s cold…”

Buffy takes a moment before opening her window all the way. “Sure. Take your shoes off and plug in your phone. I’m going back to bed.”

He grinned. “Thanks, Slayer,” he says and climbs through her window. He goes to Buffy’s charger and unplugs her phone so he can plug his in. While he’s switching out the phones, he accidentally glances at her lock screen. It’s a picture of them that was taken last week. They were standing outside of the Red Rooster dressed in their winter gear, their arms were wrapped around each other. Marty smiles down at the picture and looks up at Buffy in her bed. 

Maybe other things can make him feel alive.

**Author's Note:**

> marty's indie running playlist
> 
> title: gotta go FAST (vibez)
> 
> track list  
doin' time - lana del rey  
groceries - mallrat  
edge of town - middle kids  
calm down - pete yorn  
bossa no se - cuco  
sweet - little dragon  
stains - brockhampton  
calling occupants of interplanetary craft - klaatu  
what once was - her's  
the glow - sylvan esso  
retrograde - maggie rogers
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtBgrDRY9iRqKfnFtCwtbeBwV9z_6lCO5


End file.
